


His Last Serving Daughter

by Filigranka



Category: Il Gattopardo | The Leopard - Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa
Genre: Gen, Vignette, allusions to Concetta/Angelica and canon mess with Tancredi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-23
Updated: 2017-06-23
Packaged: 2018-11-18 05:47:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11284932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Filigranka/pseuds/Filigranka
Summary: Concetta sometimes thought she was just like the martyrs of the old times.





	His Last Serving Daughter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nabielka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nabielka/gifts).



> Many, many thanks for Isis for being my beta!

On some nights, lying in her big and ancient bed, Concetta lulled herself to sleep with prayers and pious musings, half-coherent feelings. She saw—dreamt—herself as a martyr of these sad days of decline, sacrificing herself for the greater cause, for her family and the Holy Church. She saw in her mind’s eye Tancredi’s easy, triumphant smile—so vicious when taken together with that story of his!—turning into a hurt, uncertain, pleading expression, and felt a surge of triumph herself. She had done a right thing, undoubtedly. She had defended the Church and those holy women, even if in words only. She’d condemned the evil. Even if she had lost something by it, what could be more important than standing by what is eternally right?

She had saved her family, too, allowing that marriage without batting an eye, befriending Angelica and teaching her the ways of the aristocracy. She hadn’t made a scene, not even once. She had not pleaded desperately, trying to change her father's heart— now, years after his death, she was certain he had loved her in his stoical fashion, enough to be moved by her words and feelings if she decided to show him the true extent of them—and all because she had understood the necessity. She had sacrificed herself. It had been the right thing to do. She would be remembered as a heroine in a better time, which was sure to come.

Just like the first Christian martyrs in ancient Rome, living in that similarly decadent and declining world, she thought. As she fell, finally, into sleep, she crossed herself once more, almost mechanically, an apology for dwelling on such blasphemous and prideful fantasies.

In her dreams, she smiled.

 

Angelica brought her newly-bought companion dog with her, a small, slender, huge-eyed creature. It looked at her with the devotion Concetta had until this day seen only in holy paintings . Hunting dogs, faithful and loving, looked at their masters a little differently: more ready to serve, less willing to just lie on your feet and be there, and listen.

Martha and Maria, she thought, just like Martha and Maria.

‘You should buy yourself a toy dog, too. They’re the sweetest companions,’ said Angelica. ‘They chase down loneliness with the same ease and grace the hounds possess while chasing their prey.’

‘I’m not lonely. My Lord and all His saints are always with me.’ Concetta let herself be stern for a moment, and then brightened into a smile. ‘And there are also my sisters. And you and Tancredi. And—’

‘Ah, yes. You have siblings, of course, and your sweet mother’s love. You don’t know what it’s like—‘ Angelica caught herself before ending the sentence, and covered her mistake with a sweet, well-trained   smile.

For a first time it occurred to Concetta, that maybe, just maybe, Angelica might envy her, too. And not only for her birthright .

 

Sometimes, waking up, Concetta wasn’t sure which of them she kissed in her dream—Angelica or Tancredi, Tancredi or Angelica, Tancredi, Angelica, Tancredi, Angelica—it was hard to tell, anymore.

Or maybe it was the image of her sweet Lord whom she kissed, an image that dissolved with the morning into something more... comprehensible for a feeble human mind. Maybe it was the Devil, tempting her with sinful fantasies.

Maybe all of them . Maybe she would never know, and maybe it would never matter.

Mornings brought the sun and with the sun came the duties and obligations. Prayers and rumours, orders and suggestions. Salina’s name would rise once again, and once again it would shine in the sky of Sicilian society , its brightest star, its most beautiful constellation.

At least it would, as long as Concetta had a say.

 

It was a sin, of jealousy at the very least. One must not desire that which belongs – who belongs – , to somebody else. Especially that which belongs to the family. Family was sacred, and sacrifices must be made for the family. Concettaknew this, and had made her own sacrifices. Family must survive, and it was quite apparent, now, that Tancredi was their only hope of that survival. Heirs, influence, money. Everything a noble might need in these cruel, vulgar times.

Angelica, of course, wasn’t truly noble and never could be, despite the false documents she and her father might procure. But she had learnt quickly and well, too well even, eager and hungry.

Sometimes Concetta envied her a little. The balls, the manners, the duties to Church, family, king and society, all of that had been   Angelica’s choice. And, like all choices, these must have possessed some illusion of freedom and power, sweet and alluring. Maybe not even ‘illusion’. Maybe for someone with Angelica’s qualities a title really was the one thing needed to gain the true reign—of her life, and of others' hearts.

‘Mine, too,’ admitted Concetta to herself. She had already decided she would do an additional decade of the rosary today, for all that idle musing.

 

Sometimes Concetta wasn’t sure which of them she truly kissed in reality, too. Angelica’s cheek, soft and always warm, tasting surprisingly bitter—the side-effect of the perfumes—Angelica’s mouth, sometimes, full, rosy, even softer and always sweet, from wine, fruits or cakes. But sometimes Angelica suddenly tasted like Tancredi, Tancredi who tasted of the ashes, smoke and fires of war and revolu—of tobacco . And Tancredi’s kisses, always laid in a gentle, proper, soothingly familiar manner, brought a hint of his wife’s sweet, sensual taste with them, like she was always with him—on his skin, on his lips, in his mind.

 

On some nights, lying in her big and ancient bed, Concetta lulled herself to sleep not only with prayers.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "No Hope in the Air" by Laura Marling.


End file.
